


The Adventure Of The Seventeenth Passenger (1895)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [154]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Boats and Ships, Destiel - Freeform, Government Conspiracy, Infection, Inheritance, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Murder, Trains, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-28 23:56:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11428920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A ship is lost at sea, yet somehow one of the victims is seen alive and well on a country railway station shortly after - but not for long. There is an unwelcome reappearance of a face from the past, and Sherlock again crosses swords with his brother Bacchus whose actions are, as ever, counter-productive.





	The Adventure Of The Seventeenth Passenger (1895)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aely](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aely/gifts).



> Mentioned elsewhere as 'the loss of the steamer “Friesland”'.

The disappearance of the steamship "Friesland" was a most shocking case for Sherlock and myself. The case itself was relatively straightforward, even if the sheer brutality involved in what had happened proved breath-taking, given the 'motive'. No, what took me from a London bookshop to Baker Street via the empty wastes of the North Sea was to prove another staging-post in my life, and more importantly, in my relationship with Sherlock. And at a time when my emotions were still raw after nearly losing the blue-eyed genius down a mine in Kent.

As with our Kentish (mis-)adventure, it began with a book-signing, my second such ordeal that year (he things I did for charity!). And again, most of those waiting for my illegible scrawl to deface their literature were females, but this time, I was to be given an explanation as to why, when one ‘Lucille’ asked me to dedicate her book to herself and her sister Belle. When I had finished writing, I expected her to move away and let the next lady be seated, but to my surprise she hesitated.

“Sir”, she said in a low voice, “I was wondering….. you and Mr. Holmes….”

She stuttered to a halt at that point, and I stared at her, patiently waiting for either illumination or for the book-store’s staff to usher her away. Preferably the latter.

“I was just thinking”, she said, “well, you know.”

I did not ‘know’. I stared expectantly.

“Just with Mr. Wilde recently”, she said. “You never say anything, but…. well, we women can sense these things.”

Fortunately, it was at that precise moment that the book-store staff chose to finally if belatedly usher her away, whilst I took a large gulp of my water and wished fervently that it was something stronger. The great writer Mr. Oscar Wilde, whose latest play we had seen but a few months ago, was now serving two years hard labour at the notorious Pentonville Jail, having been convicted of gross indecency. And despite all my care over my writings, that lady had presumed that…..

I really had to be more careful.

+~+~+

As I have explained before, the general Victorian approach to homosexual relationships like mine and Sherlock's was to accept it, provided – and it was a very, very large 'provided' - that those involved were discreet. In all fairness, it has to be said that the great playwright Mr. Oscar Wilde was about as discreet as an express railway locomotive at speed, and that fateful year of 'Ninety-Five, he had been at least partly the instrument of his own demise. Everyone knew full well that he and his 'friend' Lord Alfred Douglas were … well, they just were. But when Lord Alfred's father John Marquess of Queensberry (later famed for codifying the rules of pugilism) had described the playwright as a 'somdomite' at a London club in February of that year, Wilde had most foolishly chosen to sue him. The outcome had been bitter and predictable; his case had swiftly collapsed, he himself had been arrested and charged himself almost immediately after, and he had just been sentenced.

The case, along with that dratted woman's words, made me even more anxious, and it was a testament to the greatness of the man that Sherlock bore my increased 'mother-hen' tendencies with fortitude, including the fact that I grew increasingly nervous when he was out of sight. I was almost relieved, therefore, when we received our next case, little guessing what would ensue from it for our own relationship.

+~+~+

It was a warm morning in early September, and we were still at breakfast when the bell rang. Thankfully it was repaired now; Sherlock was even more absent-minded of a morning, and whilst it had been out of operation, he had answered one of the maids at the door wearing nothing but a confused expression. I could still picture the poor girl shrieking as she had shot down the corridor with impressive speed; Sherlock before coffee was not for the faint-hearted. Indeed, he could often be quite rough if he did not get his caffeine fix, which I may, on the odd occasion, have been a little tardy in providing.

I smiled at the happy memories that that particular thought entailed. Sherlock sighed resignedly, looked at the clock and rang once in response (that meant 'send up after a short delay'). Sure enough, some little time later Mrs. Singer announced a ‘Mr. Elias Sexton’. He was a short, smartly-dressed man of around fifty years of age, almost completely bald, and clearly very upset.

“Gentlemen, I would like to ask you to investigate a most puzzling case”, he said. “I cannot make head nor tail of it myself, and my dear wife thinks that I am making the whole thing up. Either that, or there are indeed such things as ghosts.” 

Sherlock guided the gentleman into the visitor’s chair, and presented him with a small brandy, which he accepted with alacrity and downed with impressive speed.

“Pray calm yourself, and begin at the beginning”, my friend said soothingly. “My services are at your disposal, but apart from the obvious facts that you have travelled down from the East Country this morning, you are or have been in the military and that the matter is of great urgency, I know nothing about it.”

The man swallowed hard. Sherlock smiled.

“Your railway ticket bears the unusual conductor’s mark that is unique to the Great Eastern Railway Company, which serves Essex and East Anglia”, Sherlock explained. “Your tie is that of the Fifty-Fourth Essex Regulars, though as they are based in the port of Harwich and occasionally accept people from southern Suffolk, that is no guarantee of your being an East Saxon. Finally, the first passenger train from that area has not long arrived at Liverpool Street Station, which means that you left your home quite early. Your clothes indicate that you are prosperous enough to afford a first-class seat, yet there are no first-class coaches attached to that parliamentary train, which means that you accepted a degree of discomfort so that you could be here one hour earlier.”

The man smiled.

“Then if you can so easily explain just how my brother was alive several hours after he had died, I would be most grateful!”

My eyes widened.

+~+~+

“It is all quite simple, Mr. Holmes”, our guest said. “Simple, yet incomprehensible. My brother Elijah conducted business which necessitated his making frequent trips across the North Sea to the Netherlands. On August the thirty-first he was due to return on the steamer _"Friesland"_ , which is owned by the Orange Line. I did not expect to see him, as we live our lives independent of each other except for Christmas, but the next day a policeman turned up at my door and said that the ship had last been lost. She had last been sighted by a Royal Navy patrol boat whilst heading into a fog bank. She had been due to dock at Parkeston Quay approximately one hour after she was sighted, but had not made port. Sadly, some items of wreckage had however been discovered, and the ship was presumed lost with all hands.”

“Yet you think that your brother is still alive somehow?” I asked.

“There is more”, he said. “After hearing of my brother's demise, I travelled down to pay my condolences to his wife, Patricia, who lives in Brentwood. Later, I was returning to my home in Hadleigh, in the county of Suffolk, and my train was held at a signal in Manningtree Junction Station, where the branch-line to Harwich diverges. Our train began to move, I chanced to look up from my paper - and we were passing my brother on the platform!” 

“You are sure that it was him?” Sherlock asked.

“Sir, we are identical twins”, he said firmly. “I know him as well as I know myself. I did not know what to do at the time, but I knew that I had to get back to him. The next station was Bently Junction, my change for the branch to Hadleigh, but instead I took the first train back to Manningtree, although I knew that I was unlikely to see anything as his train would surely have come and gone by then.”

“And did you see anything?” I asked.

He gave me a haunted look, and I felt a chill run down my spine.

“I regret to say that I did”, he said. “Our train was stopped outside the station, and we had to walk along the track-side A man had either fallen or been pushed into the path of the Norwich express.”

We both winced.

“I will spare you the question”, he said flatly. “There was not enough left to recognize. And very strangely, my brother's body had no personal possessions on it. Plus there is something else.”

“Go on”, Sherlock said.

I do not know why, but something stopped me from coming forward and identifying the body", he said. "I have of course read much on the closeness of identical twins, and I have in the past experienced some such things with dear Elijah. He had to undergo an operation the Christmas before last, and for no apparent reason I suffered pain throughout his time in hospital. Whether he was watching over me I do not know, but I kept silent. I did not tell poor Patricia what had happened; she had more than enough troubles of her own, poor lady. Yet later that evening, I read in the paper that Eijah had been identified by someone claiming to be his wife – a Mrs. Carshalton from Ipswich!”

Like the last case down that infernal mine, I began to get a bad feeling. Surely history was not about to repeat itself?

“So your question is as to whether the man you saw for a few seconds was indeed your brother?” Sherlock asked.

“Sir, I am absolutely certain that it was”, Mr. Sexton said firmly. “Which means that there is something very strange happening in the North Sea. I am a man of moderate means, but I will spend every last penny that I have to find the truth!”

He had a fanatical look about him, and I knew he spoke from the heart. Sherlock nodded.

“We will take this case”, he said. “Pray leave your card with the doctor, and we will telegraph you immediately there are any significant developments. But sir....”

“Yes?”

“I must caution you most strongly. Even though I have little as yet to go on, my sense is that there is a very strong element of danger in this matter. I think that you were quite right not to step forward and indetify your brother; indeed, had you done so, I rather fear that you would not have made it here today. And if we take it that someone has murdered your brother, then they are not going to take well to _you_ pursuing an interest in the affair. I must most strongly advise you, sir, that you leave this matter solely with me and do not press it further yourself. Did you speak to anyone else about this?”

The man shook his head.

“I was only going to tell my wife...”

“Tell your wife nothing”, Sherlock said firmly. “Doing so might only endanger her as well as your good self. I promise you that I will pursue this case to the best of my abilities, and that I will keep you fully informed.”

+~+~+

My bad feeling was only intensified by the way that Sherlock had spoken to our client, and I sensed that this was going to be another major and possibly dangerous case. Perhaps I was therefore relieved when his determination to commence work was frustrated by his own body, which had barely recovered from our Kentish ventures, as the following day he contracted a severe cough. He spent most of the next week suffering in what was most definitely not silence – he was a tolerable patient except when he wanted to be on a case – and by the end of it, I was in despair. I may or may not have selected a particularly vile chest-rub for him that had our maids refusing to come into the room with our lunch. And I may or may not have insisted on rubbing the concoction particularly thoroughly into his skin.

All right, I did. But he drove me to it. Besides, I enjoyed it!

With Sherlock out of commission, I decided that one way to make sure that he did not go out of the house was to do some research for him - he knew after the last time he had 'slipped his leash' at times like these that I took it badly - so I extracted a list of the information that he wanted, and set about obtaining it for him. He wished for a complete history of the Orange Line, plus all their current craft, and exact details of the lost ship. In return for my devoting my time to this, he promised to not try to sneak out of the house (although the way he smelt, I was fairly sure that the Singers could have detected him the moment he would have stepped out into the corridor!). I returned after a long day, and related my findings to him.

“The company has been around for a little under twenty years”, I said. “They originally just ran ferries up and down the Dutch coast and to the Frisian Isles, not very successfully it seems, until two years ago they secured the right to run the service from the Great Eastern Railway’s new harbour at Parkeston over to Hook of Holland. They also began running services from the Hook across to Kingston-upon-Hull at the same time.”

“Quite an expansion”, Sherlock said. 

“Yes”, I said. “The railway company seems to have purchased a large stake in the business, which I presume gave them the money that they needed. The _"Friesland"_ was fairly new, the second of four steamers ordered at the company’s own shipyards in Rotterdam, to replace two older and smaller vessels. The _“Geldreland”_ runs on the Hull route, and the _“Holland”_ has just been completed and is running tests for the Parkeston route. They have not started work on the _“Zeeland”_ as yet.”

“Did you manage to obtain plans for them?” he asked.

“Yes”, I said, “although there are only two sets. The Hull route ships have bigger engines and are about twenty foot longer than the Parkeston ones. And they have red stripes along the side, whilst the Parkeston ships have blue ones. From a distance the ships could look similar, I suppose.”

He nodded, seemingly satisfied. I deposited all my paperwork on the table, and went to my room, but before I could reach the door, he spoke.

“Did you choose that vile chest rub just to keep me home?”

I blushed.

“Doctor-patient confidentiality”, I bluffed.

“I _am_ the patient!” he protested.

“And _I_ am the doctor! I quipped. “I shall be back out for dinner!”

I closed the door on him, but not before I heard him chuckle. I smiled to myself.

+~+~+

It was only the following day that a 'difficult' consequence of my day’s labours made itself manifest. I had insisted on Sherlock taking some cough-medicine and staying home at least for this day, and preferably the next. To my surprise, he agreed to a further application of the unguent, though the cold he seemed to be developing to go with the cough may have persuaded him of its merits. 

I was about half-done when we heard a commotion from outside the door. Someone, a woman judging from the voice, was insisting on coming to see us, despite the maid’s protestations (the Singers were out shopping that morning, or there might also have been the sound of rifle-fire!). We looked at each other in surprise, but before we could prepare in any way, a woman came hurrying through the door, only to stop in shock when she saw a half-naked Sherlock. Though not as shocked as I was.

It was Mrs. Margaret Masters!

“Well!” she said.

+~+~+

We were spared a prolonged period of staring at each other by the advent of the maid, whose shriek at seeing one of her mistress’ tenants half-naked and subsequent rapid withdrawal seemed to snap us out of our trances (it was the luckless – or lucky - Betty, just as it had been with the breakfast 'viewing'). Or at least it did for myself and Mrs. Masters; Sherlock quite coolly got up and walked over to don a long silken dressing-gown that I had given him last Christmas, before returning to his chair and bidding our unannounced guest to sit down. It did not escape my notice just how closely she eyed my friend during this move, though when she turned her gaze on me, I did not care for the knowing look that she delivered.

“Visitors who burst in unannounced when I am being treated for a cough by my doctor must take what they see”, Sherlock said, and I noticed with pleasure that there was an ice-cold edge to his voice. “Mrs. Masters. How may we be of service?”

His tone implied quite clearly that he hoped any ‘service’ would be brief at worst. Unfortunately her opening words scotched that hope.

“I chanced to see you in the library, doctor”, she said, sitting herself down in the fireside chair. “You were researching the steamer _"Friesland"_.”

I could not deny it, though I did not see what business it was of hers. I nodded.

“My future husband was on that ship”, she said, much to the surprise of both of us. “Mr. Nicholas Old. If there is something strange about its sinking, I have a right to know.”

“You have no rights….” I began, only for Sherlock to hold up his hand.

“I am inquiring into a certain aspect of the loss of that ship”, he said. “Of course, I could not know of _your_ ties to one of the seventeen passengers on that sailing, particularly as my investigations are at but an early stage. However, once I have reached my conclusions, I will communicate them privately to you if you wish.”

“If you can spare the time between massages!” she said scornfully. She stood up and tossed a calling-card on the side-table. “Clearly I am wasting my time here. I had thought that you investigated crimes, but clearly you have _other_ interests now! Just like Mr. Wilde!”

She glided to the door, but Sherlock was faster. The doorknob was pulled from her hands by his slamming the door shut. He seemed to tower over her, and she shrank from him in terror.

“Understand this, _madam_!" he growled, and his voice was laden with a menace I had never heard before. “If you make one single public insinuation against the good doctor here, or against myself, then I will have no hesitation in instructing my relatives to make your own life decidedly.... interesting. Everything that you or those close you you have ever said or done that is even slightly questionable will be splashed across the front pages of every single newspaper in the British Empire. That, I guarantee!”

She backed away from him, visibly trembling. He eyed her for a moment, then pulled the door open and gestured for her to leave, which she did. Almost as fast as the vanished maid.

“Come, doctor”, he said, returning to the chair and removing his dressing-gown. “You will finish your application of the unguent now, if that is acceptable?”

“Oh, yes”, I said, still stunned by his fiery defence of me. “Yes, very.”

+~+~+

I was still reeling from the encounter with Mrs. Masters the following day, and was surprised when Sherlock yielded to my request to stay home for a further twenty-four hours, though he did ask me if I would do some further research for him, on the Orange Line and the _"Friesland"_ 's sister ship, the _“Holland”_. He seemed strangely depressed, which worried me, and I brought him back a quarter-pound of barley-sugar along with my findings that evening. He had also received a telegram from Mrs. Masters that day, apologizing for her behaviour the day before and asking (politely) if he would indeed send her any findings relating to her fiancé. He had replied (curtly) that he would so do.

“I am surprised that you did not ask your brother for help”, I said as I presented my findings to him that evening. His eyes lit up when he saw the barley-sugar.

“I am sure that he is aware of my investigating this matter”, Sherlock said, unwrapping one of the sweets. “Indeed, the fact he has not yet visited is something I find quite welcoming.” He looked at me askance before adding, “as, I am sure, do you.”

I blushed at the truth in that observation.

“Have you any idea how the ship disappeared?” I asked.

“I am rather afraid that I have”, he said. “However, I will not be able to fully resolve the case until Mr. Sexton answers the telegram that you sent him for me earlier. And yes, I asked Betty to get one of the boys to take it. I remembered to be clothed around her this time!”

I smiled at that.

“What did you want to know?” I asked.

“Whether there was anything found in his late brother's house that might indicate a sudden change of travel plans”, he said. “If so, then the case will be all but complete.”

I stared in confusion, but as usual he was not forthcoming with any more information. Then I remembered something else he had asked me to check.

“Oh, you were right about the co-ordinates of the last sighting”, I said. “Placing them on a map of the seas around there, the _"Friesland"_ would have struck the coast around Lowestoft had she continued on the course that she was on. I wonder why she was so far off course.”

“I am very much afraid that she was not”, he said heavily.

+~+~+

Mr. Sexton's telegram arrived the next morning, and Sherlock responded by immediately dispatching a message to Inspector Henriksen, asking him to call round. I was pleased; I had not seen our friend for some time, as he had only recently returned from sorting out a police corruption scandal in Worcestershire. 

When he arrived later that same day, however, he was not alone. He brought two people with him, one of whom was a tall blond fellow with a fox-like expression, to whom I took an instant dislike. And it did not help that the other person was Mr. Bacchus Holmes.

“I am not having this meeting documented”, the mystery blond man said firmly. He had a foreign accent, possibly German.

“Would you rather that I hand my findings over to the “Times” newspaper?” Sherlock said coldly, and he sounded unusually angry. “I believe that a case of mass murder by a Foreign Power, especially one which purports to be a friend of Great Britain would most likely dominate the front pages for many days, if not weeks.”

The man glared at him, but did not respond.

“You would not do that, Sherlock”, his brother said. “We all have too much at stake here.”

“That is why your friend is being given an unmerited chance to make reparations for his foul act”, Sherlock said curtly. “For the benefit of the doctor, who _will_ take notes, I will state what you did, then I will state what you are going to do to remedy matters as far as they can be remedied. Kindly note that, as I am not a government, the concept of negotiation is unknown to me.”

“Mr. Van Meyer will co-operate”, Mr. Bacchus Holmes said, staring at his companion who frowned but did not contradict him. “As will the Dutch government. I guarantee it.”

The other man glared at him, but did not speak. Sherlock nodded.

“This case hinged on one of the seventeen passengers on the "Friesland" that fateful day”, he said. “Fittingly number thirteen on the list, Mr. Muhammad Ahmoud. He travelled from Constantinople to Amsterdam, then proceeded to the Hook to catch the ferry to England. However, whilst in the Netherlands he felt ill, and went to see a doctor, only to be reassured that all was well. I am sorry to decry your profession, Watson, but he was lied to. The man had contracted smallpox.”

I shuddered at the mention of that terrible disease. It had once been a major killer across the world, but way back at the start of the century the great Mr. Edward Jenner had shown that deliberately infecting people with the much milder cowpox gave them immunity from its nastier sister-disease, and it was now virtually eradicated, at least in England. 

“The correct thing to do would have been to inform the patient and quarantine him”, Sherlock went on. “Instead the doctor, most unhappily, informed the Dutch government, who did what governments always do in such situations, namely panic and run around like a headless chicken. In the forthcoming Continental War, the position of the Netherlands will be important, and for the Dutch to knowingly allow a smallpox-infected man into England would not exactly make for good relations.”

“The government came up with a plan. Mr. Ahmoud and the other passengers are allowed to board – not the _"Friesland"_ , but her sister ship the _“Holland”_. The ship sails from harbour, and once at sea the government's agents knowingly and willfully murder all the passengers on board, doubtless dumping the weighted bodies into the wide expanse of the North Sea. Meanwhile the _"Friesland"_ , which had slipped out before her sister, sails around until she is spotted near a fog bank, then disappears. She is then scuttled, and doubtless her emergency crew face a long wait until the _"Holland"_ arrives to collect them at the previously agreed co-ordinates.”

I stared at my friend in silent shock.

“Seventeen people!” I exclaimed. “All killed?”

“Not quite”, Sherlock said. “There was a last-minute hitch in their murderous scheme. Mr. Elias Sexton told me that his brother was indeed summoned back to Rotterdam just half an hour before he boarded the ship. Since he had been in the waiting-room along with Mr. Ahmoud, there was the danger that he too was infected. Dutch government agents tracked him down at Manningtree Junction, but by the impenetrable workings of Providence, Mr. Elias Sexton spotted his brother the day after he was supposed to have been drowned. Unfortunately not in time to save him from being murdered in cold blood.”

There was a heavy silence in the room, and my pen sounded absurdly loud as it scratched on the paper. I could hardly write, given what I was hearing.

“What do you want?” Mr. Van Meyer ground out. 

Sherlock turned to him. 

“In the next twenty-four hours, one of two things will happen”, he said, his voice laden with menace. “Either, an anonymous and wealthy philanthropist will decide to donate a very large sum of money to the next of kin of all seventeen people on that ship. I do mean _very_ large, sir; I am sure that the recipients will all be able to live the rest of their lives in comfort and ease. Alternatively, the “Times” newspaper will have one of its most shocking front-page stories of its mostly honourable existence. Your choice, sir. Though when you stand in front of St. Peter at those Pearly Gates, I do not think that any degree of diplomatic sophistry will save you from the long drop. You will now leave.”

The diplomat scowled at him, but stood and left, followed by a shocked-looking Henriksen. Mr. Bacchus Holmes, to my annoyance, remained.

“You made a sensible choice there, Sherlock”, he said.

“I did what was needed”, Sherlock said, scowling at him. “I loathe politics, but I understand the necessity of maintaining good relations, even if it is with governments who think willful murder is acceptable practice.”

“Sherlock....”

“Do not pretend that Her Majesty's Government would not have done exactly the same thing, had the situation been otherwise”, Sherlock said, sounding tired. “Go away, Bacchus.”

“That was not what I was going to say”, his brother said. “Mycroft has called a meeting of the family trustees.”

I did not know what that meant, but it clearly elicited a reaction from Sherlock. He stood up, coughed, and glared at his brother.

“About what?” he demanded.

“We and Rafe think that you and the doctor here are a danger”, Bacchus went on. “First with Luke, and now all this fuss about Mr. Wilde.....”

“Get out.”

I barely heard the words, but the look Sherlock was giving his brother threatened severe physical damage was imminent. It was one of the rare times that I ever saw Mr. Bacchus Holmes look fearful.

“Sherlock....”

“Get out while you can still walk out!”

His brother sighed unhappily, but stood up and left. Sherlock pulled himself slowly to his feet, looking strangely uncertain. I left my notes and walked over to him.

“I am sorry about that”, I said. “If I can.....”

“John?”

“Yes?”

“Hold me.”

“What?”

He looked on the brink of tears.

“Just... please. I'm so cold, and so tired of it all. Just... hold me.”

I rushed over him and pulled him close. He was sobbing now, and it broke my heart. We stood there for some time, and he finally seemed to calm down a little.

“I need to see Martinson”, he muttered.

“Your lawyer?” I asked, confused. “Why?”

He looked up at me, and for once he actually looked a little uncertain.

“That meeting”, he said slowly. “Mycroft and Ranulph are planning to try to disinherit me. Father and Mother are away at the moment, and they are trying to act in their absences.”

“They cannot do that!” I said hotly. “You are as much a Holmes as they are!”

“They think that because of the situation of my birth, they can challenge my status”, he said softly. “But they would need all the Holmeses to agree, and even if they persuaded Gaylord, Luke and Anna would never agree.”

“Good!” I said fervently.

“But I still need to see Martinson”, he said, pulling back a little. There were tears in those wonderful blue eyes, and it nearly broke me to see them. “It is time that I accepted that, with my luck, the worst may one day happen.....”

“Sherlock! No!”

“It may, John”, he said gently. “And if it does, even though we can never be married in the eyes of the law, I want to leave everything I have and everything that I am to you.”

“Sherlock!”

“Please!” he almost begged. “Let me feel that I have lived my life to some purpose, not just so my brothers can all get even richer if the worst happens. Please, John.”

I kissed him gently and held him close again.

“Only if you let me do the same to you”, I said, knowing how much this meant to him. “Besides, I am older, so I could go first. Deal?”

“Deal!” he said, smiling through the tears. “Shake on it?”

I grinned wolfishly.

“I was hoping for something a little more.... binding”, I said. “After all, it's been a while since you had those cuffs on me.”

“Doctor Watson, you are incorrigible!” he chuckled. “But yes. I like your idea of 'a binding contract'.”

And with that he led me to his bedroom. Where I went more than willingly.

+~+~+

Postscriptum: It subsequently emerged that Mr. Van Meyer had, in the way of people in his line of 'business', acted first and sought the permission of his superiors when the foul deed had been done. Over this matter they stood by him, but when two years later he again pushed his luck in circumstances of which I know not, Mr. Lucius Holmes informed us that his body had ended up being fished out of the same ocean into which he had dispatched the passengers of the _"Friesland"_. Justice may be delayed, but it is seldom denied.

+~+~+

Next time, we make a venture into the construction business, and Sherlock finds a new way to rock my world....

**Author's Note:**

> Around this time, the increasing friction with Imperial Germany had led to the seas to the east of Great Britain becoming referred to as 'the North Sea' rather than the older 'German Ocean'.


End file.
